Inevitably
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: Mary and Holmes know each other's secret. Angst, MaryWatson, hints of HolmesWatson, not your typical romance.


Title: Inevitably

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Angst

Characters: Holmes, Watson and Mary Watson, Watson/Mary, hints of Holmes/Watson but it's not your typical romance by any stretch.

Words: 1,384

Summary: Mary and Holmes know each other's secret.

---

Their first dinner together with Holmes is a disaster.

Mary burns the roast, the potatoes are lumpy and Holmes smirks, then smokes and doesn't touch a bite.

Her John fumes at him with undisguised fury for most of the meal. The dessert is remarkable only for the way that Holmes examines the crust, then goes into a long lecture about various skin diseases.

It's awful. More awful is the way she can't stop coughing even when the kitchen smoke has cleared. She tries to cover it with a handkerchief, then a dishtowel when that doesn't muffle the sound.

A tiny spot of blood is coughed up onto the towel. It's barely visible but when she turns around, Holmes is standing there, holding the tea pot.

He looks, he _sees_, and it is done.

She pulls herself up straight. Her voice trembles but she refuses to weep. "Be kind, Mr. Holmes," she whispers.

For a long time he remains as still as a statue. He nods brusquely at her. "You have quite the collection of cough syrup bottles under the armiore. Perhaps you should dispose of them. Watson might be unobservant, but he's not stupid."

He turns on his heel and leaves Mary Watson to catch her breath, one gasp after the other.

---

Holmes continues to visit them on occasion, bringing wine and stories about the Yard that make John blink with surprise. He even agrees to go on a picnic with them one afternoon, smoking his pipe and pointing out the different types of clouds, all the while mocking Watson for his inability to rid the blanket of ants.

Mary smiles and laughs with them, pleased at how happy John is at his friend's apparent change of heart.

Her laughter ends when Holmes corners her in the hall later that evening. His features are taut. "Why does he not know? How long will you keep up this deceit? Don't you know that he would do all he could to save you?"

She looks down at her shaking hands. "Yes. He will roam the ends of the earth searching for a cure that doesn't exist. He will hunt until he is broken." Raising her eyes, she meets Holmes' gaze directly. "He was broken once, Mr. Holmes. I will not be the cause of his second destruction. I'd rather see him happy for the time we have left to share."

His eyes flash angrily. "You are making a mistake."

She shrugs, the tears threatening. "Be that as it may, it is my choice. As for the rest, I place myself in your hands, Mr. Holmes. You must do what you feel is best."

A tense moment of silence follows.

Then ... "All right. But don't complain when I do exactly that."

----

Strangely, what Holmes feels is best is taking up the mantle of Mary's savior in place of her husband.

He disappears for weeks on end, rumored to be in Brussels and Copenhagen, speaking with dozens of physicians who specialize in the treatment of lung diseases. Mary receives packages in the middle of the day when John is working and there are letters of instruction and bottles of bitter medicine for her to try.

Sometimes the medications consist of strange flowers and exotic herbs from faraway places and she wonders exactly how far he has roamed.

The papers get wind of his travels. Soon there are rumors going around London that the great detective might have some form of consumption and there is mild rejoicing in the jails.

Watson takes these rumors lightly. "He's just wanting for attention. Honestly, that fellow ..."

"You must be kind to him, John," she interjects sharply. She softens her tone at his surprised look. "You know he never does anything without cause."

Ruffled, he snaps his paper and slouches back into his chair. "It's his causes that I don't trust."

Unfortunately, none of Holmes' concoctions work. They soothe for a time, perhaps even prolong her health but the coughing continues until late in the evening and the spots of blood, once an occasional terror become more common, sprinkling their deadly message over crisp white linens.

One morning her John notices that something ... something is not right. "Let me listen to your lungs, dearest. I don't like that cough."

"I have no time for that now, darling. I did promise Mr. Holmes that I'd pop by with some of that tart he liked," she says, smiling sweetly and running out the door as quickly as she can, leaving Watson to stare after her, dark suspicion lining his normally kind features.

Once at Baker Street, an exhausted and gaunt Holmes forces her to sit and presses document after document into her hand, questioning her closely about his latest attempts and cursing when she coughs up a shilling-sized glob of blood. "This is no good! Why can't this work? I'm going back to Holland. There's a physician there ..."

"You must stop this. There is no point and you are doing exactly what I feared John would. You are hurting yourself for nothing." She is crying in earnest now, barely able to speak. "I'm not afraid to die."

"Why the devil not?" he snarls, kneeling before her and gripping her shoulders hard enough to hurt.

She gasps for air and meets his wild eyes. "Because I know that I'll be leaving my John in the best hands possible. With someone who loves him as much as I do."

There. She has said it. And he finally understands.

She can't help but touch Holmes' hair as his face crumples. She can't stop coughing either, there is blood in her mouth, on her tongue and when he kisses her roughly, it smears over his lips like a mark. She doesn't let him take her - that part of her belongs only to John- but she kisses him back as a grateful wife might, embracing a man who has broken himself for her in place of her beloved.

Eventually, he pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He retrieves her a glass of water and a clean linen. "Wash your face, Mary. You can't go home looking like that."

She tries to laugh. "Yes. I must hide my shame." A weak smile curves her mouth. "God bless you, Mr. Holmes."

"There are no guarantees, you know," he says hoarsely, his hands curled into fists. "I could disappear tomorrow and what of your grand sacrifice then? Hmmm? How do you know I won't go?"

"I don't have to be a great detective to know that you wouldn't leave our John alone for long. Not in this life nor the next."

His eyebrow arches. "_Our_ John?"

Her smile is watery, but serene. "I don't see why we have to start lying to each other now. You will be there for him until the end of days. Now goodbye, my dear friend. My trust and faith in you is as complete as my faith in Heaven. I know you won't let me down. Goodbye, sir."

Holmes doesn't watch as she leaves. He knows that when she gets home, Watson will confront her, first about him, then about the blood on the front of her dress. She will feign ignorance until he forces her into his examination room and finally hears the rattle in her lungs. He will do his best not to let her see his terror. She will comfort him with words and embraces. In two weeks, maybe three ...

The inevitable will follow.

Holmes picks up his violin and plucks it. The sounds come out as random as the whims of Fate and he knows that he'll be leaving soon. There is no way around it. But he also knows he'll one day return to be by John's side forever. One didn't have to be a great detective to know that.

One only had to be a woman - and a man - in love.

---

end

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